Within Me
by Ready Or Notxx
Summary: Marla Singer loves me. I love Marla Singer. She loves Tyler. But she doesn't truly know the difference. MarlaxJack. Fluff/Drabble.


Whee! First Fight Club fic! It's such a great movie. Okay, so I know the narrator's name is debatable, but I've always called him Jack, and that's that. MarlaxJack = EPIC WIN!

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**Within Me**

Marla's upstairs again. In her underwear, watching the old RCA, probably watching one of those stupid sitcoms she loves so much. I'd moved into her/Tyler's room after she'd moved into Paper Street's atomic shithole.

I am Jack's Complete Lack of Surprise.

I stand in the doorway of our room, my cold, lye-scarred hand on the knob. Big brown, wide eyes meet mine. Skim milk, pale, white hands put the cereal bowl down on the end table next to the bed.

Marla loves me.

Marla loves Tyler Durden.

Tyler said she didn't even really know the difference between who was fucking her and who wasn't. Said I was asleep the whole time, said he was control of the body we both shared before I shoved that gun barrel in my cheek and sent my mental hallucination straight to hell.

Picture a teenage boy knocking out a lamp with a baseball back. Picture me fucking Marla singer while I'm asleep.

I guess I'm never really asleep. Well, I am able to sleep a little _now, _since I got rid of Tyler. I'm more at ease. I can let myself succumb to sleep without worrying about another space monkey trying to chop off another successful man's balls. I can nod off without having to jerk my head back up, without blinking and having my vision focus on my boss bitch-bitch-bitching about something he found by the copy machine.

That way Tyler's words don't come out of my mouth again.

Marla has met me at a very strange time in my life. I was finally able to explain to her everything, tell her my real name and that I'm not really Tyler, Tyler Butt-Wipe-For-The-Brains Durden. And she gets it, mostly. I think.

I am Jack's Exhaled Sigh of relief.

Marla looks at me, lighting a cigarette. I've told her at least a thousand times not to smoke in bed, but of course she doesn't listen to me at all. It's more like I've taken in a child than committed myself to a woman, really.

Marla Singer loves me.

I love Marla Singer.

She loves Tyler.

But she really doesn't know the difference, even though I've explained to her that I was really suffering from a schizophrenic hallucination named Tyler Durden.

Am I really what Marla wants? What if I project another Tyler?

Will I be able to save Marla this time?

"Well?"

I blink. I've just been standing here, staring at her. Marla rolls her eyes. "You know, you've gotten so overly sentimental since I moved in," she comments, a cloud of smoke escaping her burgundy lips. "You'd think you would've thrown me out by now."

"I've thought about it once or twice," I mutter back, rolling my eyes right back at her, but merely in a joking sort of way.

I guess.

Bite my lip.

Am I really something Marla needs?

I used to not give a fuck about what she needed. Not give a fuck if she killed herself with Xanax or not. I used to believe she was the one who was keeping me awake, that she was my cancerous brain tumor, that her lie reflected mine.

I am Jack's Sweating Palms.

I'm not sure why I don't talk again at first, but I sit down next to Marla on the bed and turn the TV off with the RCA remote. "I need to talk to you," I say, not meeting her enormous brown eyes.

"Yeah?" Marla's pale fingers ruffle through her tangled, matted, messy black hair.

I sigh. "I don't know if I should say this. But I have to. Marla, I'm fucked up in the head."

"I know that." Marla says it with a straight face. She's not kidding.

"Yeah, I know you know. There's more to tell, though. I… don't want to lose you."

Fuck.

I hate myself. But I hate who I used to be even more. My eyes water, my fists clench.

How was I supposed to know I loved Marla this much? How the hell was I supposed to know that my fucking tumor would grow into something I appreciate?

I go on, "So… if I ever, you know… repeat the history with the whole Tyler thing… I want you to kill me." I hand her a gun, a gleaming silver gun. Truth be told, I forgot I was holding it with all the perspiration forming on my palms.

Inside the gun are bullets.

Picture Marla pulling the trigger, the bullet diving into my neck or chest.

I am Jack's Nervous Tears.

Marla's eyes soften. Her hand meets my cheek, her thumb strokes it. I'm able to swallow again, suddenly.

"I know you'll be okay," she murmurs, then glides her dark lips over mine.

Her breath smells like wispy smoke. I don't choke. In fact, I love it. A new sense of appreciation over it sparks within me.

I can't keep pretending I'm not scared, terrified for her future and for her life. I can't keep taking pills to keep my from closing my eyes, from losing my mind again. I can't just wake up every day and pretend I did nothing whatsoever wrong.

I'm not as Zen as I'd like to be. I'm worthless, decaying matter, part of a compost pile like Tyler once said. And I'm definitely nowhere near special.

But with Marla, I am _something._

I don't know what that something is, but I don't care.

At least it's something, rather than nothing at all.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Don't you love those two? Review, please!


End file.
